


Denial - Insert a River Reference.

by orphan_account



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Kid Fic, M/M, SO MUCH FLUFF, non-powered
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-14
Updated: 2012-12-14
Packaged: 2017-11-21 03:09:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/592768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a man who lives in Erik's apartment building, on the first floor behind a rust colored door that is the last one on the right. </p><p>And Erik is definitely not in love with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Denial - Insert a River Reference.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zombias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zombias/gifts).



\--

Tuesday morning kicks off like most weekdays do in the Lehnsherr household, with Erik half asleep in the shower, eyes drooping while he grumbes under his breath at the consistently shit state of his apartment's water pressure.

By the time he's toweled off, donned his work clothes - a sharp grey suit and a crisp blue business shirt - it's almost a quarter past 6 in the morning, which means it's time to wrestle his two little devils out of bed and habitually tuning out there bitching and moaning.

Of the two, Pietro is the easiest to wake. All it takes is one firm shake to the shoulder and he's up like a shot, rubbing at his eyes and yawning wider than should be humanly possible.

"Mornin', Pa," he whispers blearily, already swinging his feet over the edge of the bed, yelping when his feet touch the hardwood floors, the surface cold from the morning chill. Erik, caring father that he is, rolls his eyes.

"Where are your slippers?"

At Pietro's tired shrug, Erik quickly scans the room for the fluffy green eyesores', sighing deeply when he finds them nowhere in sight. 

"How many times have told you to take better care of your things, Pietro?" Erik scolds, toeing off his own slippers -navy blue and well worn- before falling into a kneel by his son's bedside, taking those tiny feet firmly in hand before sliding the shoes over Pietro's wriggling toes. They look absolutely ridiculous, large and floppy, and Erik's probably going to find some faint amusement in watching him try to walk in them but still; they'll get the job done.

Rising to his feet, he ignores the indignant squeal he receives when he reaches down to ruffle his son's hair - the light shade of blond so very different from his own - and then taking his leave, tossing a "Breakfast in 5," over his shoulder as he walks out the door, the soles of his feet already mourning the loss of warmth. Behind him he hears a loud groan, but it's accompanied by the sound of shifting sheets so Erik doesn't pay it much mind, just basks in his son's misery. The only good thing about early mornings is knowing that everyone is suffering with you.

Unless you're Wanda of course, who possesses both her late Mother's pension for sleeping long hours and Erik's near destructive stubbornness. After 10 minutes of trying to shake her awake and only receiving indecipherable babble in return, Erik realizes it's going to be one of _those_ mornings and decides he's really not in the mood for it. 

In one swift move he has her thrown over his shoulder, spitting a stray lock of her long dark hair out of his mouth (she's going to need a hair cut soon, too many split ends. Erik is already dreading the hissy fit that will no doubt take place) and making his way to the kitchen.

Maybe the sound of Erik giving all her bacon to Pietro will finally convince her to join the waking world.

\--

The kid's are dressed and packed for school at precisely 7:10am, and Erik makes quick work of checking all the windows are closed and secure inside the three bedroom apartment before leaving. Break in's aren't particularly notorious in this precinct, but old habit's die hard and Erik doesn't take chances, not anymore.

From there it's only a minute or two to double lock the front door and for all of them to clamor into the elevator.

"Don't even think about it," Erik growls, hitting the 'Ground Floor' button, watches from the corner of his eye as Pietro's hand slowly withdraws from where it was hovering close to the button panel on the right hand side of the door. The journey down is quick and filled with the sound of the twins fighting over something inane like who was the better Spider-man. Erik tunes in with one ear (Wanda is firmly behind the remake-remake, her love for reptiles trumps pretty much anything, while Pietro prefers the first remake because he thought the main guy cries really funny and doesn't have hipster hair) while the rest of him is trying to tamp down the sudden nervous anticipation running through his body that's causing his fingers to shake, his toes to curl and uncurl restlessly in his shoes.

It's a feeling that has only begun to prop up recently, one that only starts the moment he enters the elevator and builds the closer and closer he gets to the ground floor. At the moment he's of the notion that some dormant claustrophobia has reared it's incredibly unwelcome head, though that doesn't really explain why it's only been happening on the elevator rides down in the morning and not the rides up in the afternoon. Then again, it could be that other thing, but Erik isn't actually prepared to ruminate on that quite yet so he's sticking with the extremely improbable selective claustrophobia theory he's got running at the moment.

\--

The elevator doors open to the scene of Charles Xavier wrapping his son in an overly large scarf by the apartment building's entrance doors, speaking to David quietly as he tucks the loose, tasseled ends into the V of the boy's jacket, all the while smiling that singularly perfect, gentle smile that is reserved solely for his son but makes Erik feel like a line backer has just tackled him in the gut.

' _Selective Claustrophobia_ ' Erik repeats to himself, nails curling into his palms' as his children rush past him, forgetting every manner Erik has ever taught them as they barrel into their shared best friend, hollering and cheering as they all go down in a large heap of giggles and rapid fire chatter and the odd painful squawk. Erik's betting the latter is David. 

There's a woman collecting her mail from one of the numerous pigeon holes lined up along the left-hand wall near the building's entrance. She keeps glancing over to the spectacle the children are making, nose wrinkled like she's caught the scent of something foul.

Charles catches her looking, and Erik gets front row seats to watching the other man's indulgent grin at the children's antics slowly morph into a smile so polite it could cut through steel.

The woman averts her gaze swiftly and Erik's knees go a little weak.

Selective Claustrophobia.

Yeah. Definitely.

\--

All it takes is a sharp bark from Erik and all three children are immediately on their feet, dusting off clothes and smoothing out creases on each other's winter coats as they say their farewell's to their respective parents.

After Wanda and Pietro are done hugging him ("Bye, Pa!") and David has received his kiss from his father ("Daaaaad." "Oh, hush, have a good day"), it's just Erik and Charles in the lobby, waving goodbye as the trio join hands and duck out the door, starting their trek to the bus stop. A somewhat awkward silence settles between them in the wake of the children's energy and just as Erik is about to speak David comes barreling back inside, face already flushed from the cold.

"David?" Charles enquires.

"Lunch," David huffs out, and Erik watches as understanding dawns on Charles' face, the expression immediately turning sheepish as he looks down at the tin lunch box sitting innocently on his blanket covered lap. He quickly hands it over, and to Erik's vast amusement, David glances back to the door to make sure that Wanda and Pietro haven't followed him back in before quickly leaning over the armrest of Charles' wheelchair and pecking his father on the cheek.

"Bye Dad. Bye Mr. Lehnsherr!" David calls brightly, then bustles out the door, lunch box in hand.

Silence settles again. Right until Erik grins, shark like, his eyebrow quirking upwards in ill-contained mirth. 

"Goodness, Charles. You're practically _glowing_."

The other man quickly, covers his face, but it does little to hide the pleased grin pulling at the corners of his lips, and if there was any soul on this entire Earth who doubted Charles' love for his only son, they could not hold such a conviction in this moment: Charles flushed a pleasant pink, expression proud as his compact body practically radiated happiness. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Erik wonders what it might be like to be the reason Charles shines so brightly.

They both startle as a high pitched beeping goes off close by, and Erik curses when he realizes it's his wristwatch.

"Late?" Charles asks, the color in his cheeks fading fast and returning to his natural hue.

"Yeah, long day ahead of me. New contract."

"Oh! Is that so? If you needed to stay later at the office, I could--" Charles gestures to the entrance doors, the too long sweater sleeves falling down slightly to reveal a stretch of pale wrist that Erik attempts not to stare at and fails completely.

It takes a moment for Erik to figure out what he's getting at and then immediately feels some semblance of relief.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, yes of course! I always love having them around, and I know David does too."

"Alright then," Erik agrees, nodding his head once. "I should be no later than 7 or 8."

"Excellent!" Charles beams, beginning to maneuver himself in the direction of the elevator. "We'll see you then."

"Yeah."

_See you then._

\--

12 and half hours later finds Erik grumbling about 'unlocked doors' and 'stupid, oblivious academics' as he makes his way into the Xavier household after his knocks went unheard for the umpteenth time. There's no one in the entry hall, which is altogether unsurprising, so he merely follows the loud thumps and bumps that are no doubt being caused by at least half of his blood kin.

He is ill prepared for what he finds.

Pietro and David appear to have built (well, _still_ building) a city on the sitting room floor. Charles' usually packed-in book shelves on the far wall are now despairingly empty, it's thick, musty tomes now substituting as high palace walls for a citadel founded on the words of Dickens, Shakespeare and Maya Angelou. The boys are just clearing one of Charles' beloved tartan couches (a bloody eyesore if Erik ever saw one) to allow for more expansion. And at the center of their creation, amongst pages both old and new - there is Wanda, on a throne five encyclopedias high, sitting regally as any queen as Charles braids her hair, his short fingers weaving her dark locks into an intricate pattern as lovingly as he'd tucked his own son's scarf in his jacket that very morning.

It's 7:39pm on a Tuesday night, and Erik is finally ready to admit that yeah, okay: maybe he's a little in love with Charles Xavier.

\--

THE END


End file.
